


en prise

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: First Aid, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Taken Off Guard By Small Displays Of Affection, Treatment Of Injury Leads To Inconvenient Arousal In Injured Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 04:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18887008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: He raised his hand without thinking and scrubbed it across the back of his neck. It was just habit, but his stomach twisted as his hand accidentally covered Hawke’s. He tried to jerk away from the touch, but Hawke turned his own too quickly and dug his nails tight in Cullen’s wrist. Cullen wasn’t even quite sure how he managed that and he didn’t turn to look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”“All you had to do was ask,” Hawke said, “if you really wanted to hold my hand.”





	en prise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



“I don’t need—I’m not an invalid for Maker’s sake.” But perhaps his very strong, very stubborn words meant little, because Cullen Rutherford was still being manhandled by his least favorite Hawke sibling and this wasn’t a situation he ever intended to be in. He could, if need be, trace blame all the way back to Kirkwall, but it did him no good. Hawke was still pawing at his armor, scrabbling at the straps and joins in a bid to get it off. Though Cullen would have liked to stop him, it hurt to move. Hells, it hurt to breathe. There was only so much swatting at arms and torsos and even heads that Cullen could do before he gave up. “I don’t need your help.”

Not that Cullen gave up _easily_.

“Oh,” Hawke answered, a breezy laugh in his voice. “You definitely need help, Commander.”

“Your help, Hawke. I don’t need your help. I’ve never denied that—ah, you blighted—! You’re doing this on purpose.” But then the armor was off and the lancing ache that seemed so attuned to his pulse faded just a touch. Not that he would ever say it, but he did feel better without the heavy weight of his pauldrons on his shoulders, the unforgiving, claustrophobic metal of his chest plate banded across said chest. But then Hawke’s hands were all over him, cataloguing every inch of his torso as he searched for… Cullen wasn’t entirely sure. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say…”

He’d better say nothing as a blush spread across his cheeks, his face warming as his mind raced far, far ahead of him and his mouth moved even faster. He couldn’t even blame it on the sun, which was firmly hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. Heat stroke would’ve handily accounted for the nonsensical thoughts that flitted through his mind at that moment.

“You’d say what?” Hawke’s mouth twisted up into a smile and the lines around his eyes crinkled. Over the years, Cullen had seen him smile in so many situations that it shouldn’t have registered at all, but there was something about this one that caused Cullen’s heart to flutter. Or maybe that was blood loss. He could hope it was blood loss anyway, even though he didn’t think he’d actually been stabbed. It was just a close shave. A lot of close shaves with a lot of demons and promising young Wardens. “You’ve got me on tenterhooks here. Don’t leave me hanging.”

But Cullen was stubborn and now Hawke was deftly undoing the clasps and enclosures of his belt and shirt, too. It wasn’t anything others on the battlefield weren’t doing for one another, but with Hawke doing it, it felt obscene and inappropriate. And even though he knew better, knew that no one was paying attention to them, he still felt exposed.

Adrenaline continued to course through him and gave him all sorts of thoughts he shouldn’t have been harboring, thoughts about Hawke and who they were to one another.

Who they could have been if Hawke wasn’t Hawke and Cullen wasn’t a born and bred Templar. He might no longer have their allegiance. Nor they, his, but that didn’t forgive the past. It didn’t matter that they were on the same side now, that the threat Corypheus posed wiped away old rivalries like a hand skimming across clear water, obscuring an image of the bottom that was once crystalline and perfect, easy to understand.

Adrenaline, of course. That was an even better excuse than heat stroke. Adrenaline explained everything.

Some things remained forever unforgivable.

“Now let’s get a look at you, shall we?” Hawke said, unaware of or unconcerned by Cullen’s misgivings as he slid his hands across Cullen’s shoulders and grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling it over Cullen’s head and mussing his already mussed hair even further. “Since you won’t share your no doubt titillating and salacious thoughts about me.”

“Why are you doing this?” The question came out plaintive, whining and nasal, not at all how Cullen preferred to comport himself.

Hawke’s hands stilled, heavy around his neck, thumbs resting almost intimately at the base of his throat, a noose that Hawke only needed to tighten in order to cut off his breath for good. “It’s help you or help one of the remaining Wardens,” he said, painfully cheerful, “but I’m not sure I could approach them with any degree of objectivity at the moment. Besides, I saw that last hit you took. It was a dirty move at the end of a battle lost. Looked like it hurt.”

His eyes scanned the battlefield where Adamant loomed bloody and broken, and his features tightened as he took in the equally bloody and broken array of Wardens who skulked and shuffled about the battlements. It was safer out here on the grounds, to be sure, no risk of running into them amongst the bulk of the Inquisition’s forces, most of whom were equally wary. Cullen supposed he couldn’t blame Hawke for coming out here instead.

Cullen wanted to be angry at them. Of all the foolish, wrongheaded things they could have done, this was the most foolish and wrongheaded. But Cullen knew fear and the way it twisted the purest of people into creatures they never wanted to become. He could have become them if he was a Warden.

He was infinitely grateful that he didn’t have to carry the burden of this responsibility, too, and that he felt no compulsion to defend their behavior to Hawke.

Cullen barked out a short, dry laugh, his amusement taking himself by surprise. Given the circumstances, mourning might have been the more appropriate response. “So you find the nearest Templar to mother hen instead?”

“Not the nearest,” Hawke replied, a little haughty. Over the years, Cullen had gotten to know what Hawke’s disdain felt like, knew when he was joking and when he was serious. He wasn’t sure he liked what it said about him that he could tell Hawke was serious. “What exactly do you take me for? You were always the only Templar for me.”

Cullen scoffed. Uneasy allies was the best Cullen could ever hope to expect out of Hawke. Maybe he was the only Templar Hawke didn’t want to blast with a fireball; that would make a small degree of sense, he supposed. But it did things to Cullen when Hawke spoke to him this way. It was only to get a rise out of him, he was sure. In a way, it worked. And more effectively than Cullen was entirely comfortable with.

Hawke would probably laugh if he knew.

“How’s your breathing?” Hawke asked, hand coming around to settle between his shoulder blades, followed by the rest of him coming to stand behind Cullen’s back, reminding him that he was, in fact, undressed from the waist up.

That flush in his face was probably moving down his chest now. He certainly felt warmer all over. But at least it was possible Hawke wouldn’t notice from behind him.

Bad now that you’re touching me, Cullen thought, but knew better than to say. His heart was pounding a little bit harder and he felt like there was a band tightening around his belly. It felt like nerves, an old shyness he hadn’t felt in many years. There wasn’t any pain at least, which was more than he could say about most other injuries he’d collected in his life. “It’s fine.”

“Really?” And now Hawke was just being a dick on purpose, because his hand splayed wide, a five-pointed star that was somehow cooler than Cullen’s skin was. It was softer than Cullen expected, Hawke’s hand, less calloused and chapped than they might have been. “So this poisoned cut behind your ear and across the back of your neck _isn’t_ bothering you?”

Hawke wasn’t touching him anywhere near his ear. He wished Hawke was, though.

He was about to say as much when he felt the familiar buzz of magic and found everything except sheer panic fleeing from his mind and body. The lyrium-bright tang of it clogged the back of his throat. It had been a long time since the touch of magic against his skin did anything except hurt him and he almost flinched at it, a cascade of memories barely held behind the dam he’d built up long ago to allow himself to function in the world.

It was easier these days not to immediately feel Kinloch’s lingering influence, but it would never be easy. And he trusted Hawke, no matter how complicated a package that trust came trussed up in.

“Come now, Commander. It’s just a trick I picked up when I was a kid.” Hawke’s voice was soothing, soft, very close as he leaned in. Cullen managed to suppress a shiver, but only just. It eased the panic somewhat.

“You taught yourself how to heal poisonings?” The very thought of it distracted him from the discordant hum of Hawke’s magic against his skin.

“My father did,” Hawke replied. “He probably saw Carver and me and wanted to make sure we didn’t do anything permanently stupid to each other. He taught Bethany, too, but she was more interested in freezing blades of grass and stabbing Carver in the foot with them.”

He only stumbled a little bit over his sister’s name.

“I know it’s unpleasant for you,” Hawke continued, “but I don’t have any antidote on me and it’s not looking very pretty. You’re also very warm.”

For one nonsensical moment, Cullen mixed up what Hawke said and thought he’d insisted that Cullen was pretty. But that definitely wasn’t right. It was the kind of thing Hawke would say, but not the kind of thing Hawke would say about _him_. Not that he wanted him to. It didn’t matter what Hawke thought of his physical appearance. That was preposterous.

A small, unpleasant part of Cullen wanted to snap at him that there was a perfectly serviceable medical tent on the other side of the encampment. The rest realized that if Cullen could avoid using one, it would mean more supplies for someone else who was hurt.

Hawke’s thumb brushed the nape of his neck. Cullen wanted him to do it again, but he didn’t know how to say it. The band across his stomach eased. His skin chilled a little. He didn’t feel quite as bad as he did before, hadn’t even really realized he felt bad to begin with.

Maybe Hawke wasn’t a complete idiot. Perhaps a barely trained Warden recruit did get the drop on him.

“I didn’t know you were a healer, too,” Cullen said instead, clumsy. Even after all the years they knew one another and Hawke could still surprise him. “I thought you just caused the city guard of Kirkwall a lot of trouble.”

“Can’t I do both?” Then Hawke laughed and it made something flutter in Cullen’s chest. He was still close enough that Cullen could feel his breath against the back of his neck. “In truth, I’m not. I just know a bit of field healing. Part of it was Anders’s insistence. Funny how that works. Not that it hasn’t been useful. How are you feeling now by the way?”

“Better, thank you,” Cullen admitted. He raised his hand without thinking and scrubbed it across the back of his neck. It was just habit, but his stomach twisted as his hand accidentally covered Hawke’s. He tried to jerk away from the touch, but Hawke turned his own too quickly and dug his nails tight in Cullen’s wrist. Cullen wasn’t even quite sure how he managed that and he didn’t turn to look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“All you had to do was ask,” Hawke said, “if you really wanted to hold my hand.”

Hawke was such a damnably impossible man.

“I didn’t.” The truth was more complicated and simpler all at once: he wanted to do something else entirely with Hawke. Something that required rather fewer clothes and maybe an injury or two less. “And I don’t want to.”

Huffing, Hawke squeezed Cullen’s hand tight enough that the bones creaked. More importantly, Hawke didn’t let him go. “You’re impossible,” he said, as though he had some surface access to Cullen’s thoughts and wanted to turn them back on him. “And I’m still not done, so stop touching.”

“But I feel fine.” This blood rushed in his ears, as swift and certain as the tides.

The thought of Hawke’s hands remaining on him was untenable. And worse, another piece of his anatomy stirred at the attention. Now that he wasn’t… whatever. _Poisoned_. He could focus on other things. Like the way his body was betraying him and how unfair it was that he could feel this way about someone who couldn’t want him back.

It wasn’t fair that Hawke doing him a kindness could wreck him so thoroughly on so many different levels.

It wasn’t even a kindness really. Hawke didn’t do anything with kindness in mind.

“Yes, well, unless you want this poison to linger, you’ll let me clean you up a bit. You’ve got blood all over you and I need to make sure it’s all gone. I’ve done what I could to get the poison out, but I don’t want it getting into any other cuts you might have. Luckily, I do have some clean cloth and water.”

“Just no antidote.”

“Just no antidote,” Hawke said, agreeable. A leather pouch on his hip was unsnapped. It was shortly followed by the sound of a water skin sloshing. Not more than a few moments after that, Cullen felt tepid water drip onto his back. That didn’t assist Cullen in any respect, especially not once Hawke swiped the soft fabric over his skin. Shuddering, Cullen bit his lip and breathed in through his nose and hoped he would get through this with his dignity intact.

Then again, when Hawke was around, he had a hard time managing to keep anything intact, his dignity least of all.

“I’m going to hit you with one more dose of magic if that’s alright with you.” Hawke patted his shoulder and offered one final scrub of Cullen’s skin. “Might even manage not to leave a scar behind. Not that you don’t look perfectly fetching with them. That one on your lip is exquisi—”

“Stop,” Cullen said, voice cracking in embarrassing fashion. If there was any justice in the world, a hole would open up and swallow Cullen whole. “Just—stop it, Hawke.” Hawke’s angles weren’t easy to figure out and this one was no different. And it had been so easy to forget about him between leaving Kirkwall and his eventual arrival at Skyhold. But now Hawke’s hands were all over him and he was apologetically performing magic to save Cullen’s life and all Cullen could think about was the way he wished pretense didn’t stand in the way.

Hawke wore flirtatious humor like armor, but it would have been so easy to get turned around and think—want things that weren’t true or real.

Everything stopped, Hawke most surprisingly of all since he never listened to Cullen even when Cullen was at his best or had the most leverage. He went still as a statue and Cullen was glad he couldn’t see Hawke’s face because the sharp, shuddering breath he drew in almost, almost cleaved Cullen’s heart in two. It had the same uncertain, shaky quality that Cullen recognized in his own.

“Andraste damn you, you selfish prick,” Hawke said, voice low with a cutting edge that sliced true despite its best effort to waver and go astray. In all their years, he didn’t think he’d ever heard Hawke sound quite so vulnerable.

It was wrong, as wrong as Cullen taking advantage of Hawke’s sudden urge to do Cullen kindnesses.

“Are you done?” Shrugging, Cullen realized his body was feeling significantly looser and easy. His neck no longer seemed like it was locked in a vice and there was no pain when he stretched, bones popping and cracking as he twisted his head. It was better for them both if Hawke was angry with him; it was what they were used to.

The rush of—he hesitated to call it this, but he didn’t know what else to call it instead—arousal he’d felt at Hawke’s touch subsided, a relief to him as he put distance between himself and Hawke, standing and snatching up his shirt from where Hawke had unceremoniously dumped it in the dirt and trampled grass. His head was clearer now. He could see this for the mistake it was.

But he’d only added another mistake to the mix, because in all of this, he’d forgotten how quickly Hawke could scramble for a fight when he was motivated.

He rounded on Cullen, features grim and twitching, his eyes doing their level best to reduce Cullen to dust; it was clear he was spoiling for a fight. “Aren’t you tired of this?” His arm cut through the air as he gestured between himself and Cullen. He misjudged the distance, the back of his hand colliding with Cullen’s chest. “I just had to physically go into the Fade and leave behind the only Warden I could trust not to bungle things topside and you managed to get poisoned by an amateur in some shiny new Warden armor who was too scared not to help pull the dumbest shit imaginable and I am really fucking tired of pretending I don’t give a shit what happens to you. So yeah. To answer your question: I am done. I’m really fucking done.”

He looked as though he would shake apart from his frustration. That Cullen’s well-being was enough to put him there was like the shock of ice water getting thrown in his face.

Eyes wide, Cullen could only stare at him in response. He’d thought his mind was clear, but he was having a hard time processing Hawke’s words. It was easier to focus on the details of Hawke’s recent misadventure, because at least in that respect Cullen could agree. He was already tired of seeing Hawke rush into danger and he’d only just started seeing it again. He’d done it from the beginning, but this was too much. Cullen wasn’t used to it anymore. And things had gotten so complicated since those days in Kirkwall.

Hawke could have died. And there was nothing Cullen could do about it, not even as the commander of the Inquisition’s forces, not even as advisor to the Inquisitor herself.

Hawke could have died back in Kirkwall, too, and there’d been nothing Cullen could do about it then either.

A complicated mess of emotions crossed Hawke’s face. Fury, abashment, fury again, and resignation. Maybe a little surprise. No hope though.

“Unbelievable,” Hawke said, shaking his head and throwing his arms up. He turned away, but Cullen was a little quicker and grabbed Hawke by the arm in a desperate bid to stop him. The metal of Hawke’s armor and belt clattered as he was yanked around, but he didn’t seem any more angry than before, so Cullen allowed himself to consider it a win.

“Hawke, wait. I—” But he didn’t really know what to say. Words failed him constantly, tumbled from his mouth in awkward fits and starts. He wasn’t much better with actions except on a battlefield, but it wasn’t so very hard to pull Hawke close. Certainly easier than telling him that he was this close to admitting his feelings. One feeling anyway. More than that may have been too much for him.

It was maybe a stupid thing to do. Cullen could admit that to himself. But the momentum of his action brought Hawke chest to chest with him, made Hawke give a surprised whuff of air, and got him to be the one blushing for once beneath the tan that seemed to follow him everywhere.

It was a good look for him. Then again, most of his looks were good. Not that Cullen wanted to admit it.

“By rights, I should punch you,” Hawke said, but instead of anger, Cullen only heard intrigue in his tone. And fine, maybe Cullen heard a little bit of anger, too. But his eyes skimmed up from Cullen’s chest to his face and he didn’t seem quite so furious as he had a moment ago. “For emotional damages. What in the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Cullen answered. That was easy enough to admit. And then he gave Hawke’s mouth something else to do than talk.

Hopefully the action would answer Hawke’s question well enough. Or maybe he’d pull back and deck Cullen. It would have served Cullen right. But though Hawke stiffened for a moment, he got with it quickly, his hands fisting in Cullen’s shirt.

This was probably wildly inappropriate behavior to be engaging in out in the open, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the prickle of Hawke’s beard against his skin was enough to drive Cullen to distraction. His body hummed in the same way he recalled that lyrium highs could make him, clear and crystalline and sharp-edged. But he didn’t feel any of the usual downsides, the lack of control, the power tripping belief that he was the one in charge. Most Templars knew to temper those impulses and Cullen had been better than most at it.

That didn’t always matter.

Cullen was glad he could tell the difference anyway. It was so very close to feeling the same, incandescent and terrifying in how exciting it truly was.

Hawke pulled him even closer, grabbed at his clothing, wrapped his arm around Cullen’s neck and acted like he wanted to climb into Cullen’s skin. He bit at Cullen’s lip and hiked Cullen’s shirt up, dragged his nails down Cullen’s back, threatening to undo the work he’d put into healing Cullen to begin with.

At least this time there wouldn’t be poison.

Or he hoped anyway.

He was pretty sure.

The Inquisitor might try to avenge him if Hawke was just trying to kill him. Given the wicked things he was doing with his tongue, Cullen wasn’t sure that wasn’t exactly what he was doing. For a short, wild moment, he was certain he could die happy so long as Hawke twisted his tongue the way he did, doing things Cullen hadn’t felt in a long, long time. If ever.

It’d never been like this before.

For a man who’d just been poisoned, he was doing a lot better than he had any right to. Even if he’d used an antidote instead, he probably wouldn’t feel anywhere near as good as he felt now.

Heat curled in his belly, spread through his limbs and twined around his bones, enervating every inch of him. This was definitely going somewhere inappropriate and quickly. If he wanted to keep the respect of his troops, he’d have to…

“Hawke,” he said, voice rough. His skin buzzed from the lingering feel of Hawke’s beard against his jaw. Cullen dragged his hand across his mouth and ran his hand over the back of his head. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

“We probably shouldn’t do this anywhere,” Hawke said, jocular, but his eyes were serious and his mouth was set in an equally serious slant. That was determination, pure and simple. Hawke would see that through. “But I’d rather that not stop us.”

“Has it ever stopped us before?” He let a smile pull at the corner of his mouth, softened his words as much as he could. They’d had so many bad ideas between the two of them that Cullen couldn’t see why this one was any worse than the others. And it would be infinitely more pleasurable than most of them. Nobody would be throwing any fireballs probably. “The things we shouldn’t do?”

Cullen hoped there wouldn’t be fireballs anyway.

But later. Later when they weren’t stuck on a battlefield. Later when they’d had a chance to think about it further and decide what they were doing. He didn’t want to go into this without considering what they were doing. It mattered too much to Cullen to mess things up by letting tunnel vision take over. Battlefields were the worst places to make personal decisions.

Hawke bit his lip as his eyes fell to Cullen’s mouth. When he lifted his eyes again, he smiled. He ran his thumb over Cullen’s lower lip while his other hand cupped his jaw, that thumb smoothing back and forth across Cullen’s cheek. It startled Cullen that such a simple touch could make his chest ache so deeply or make his eyes prickle just so. Not enough that Cullen couldn’t control it, of course. Maker forbid the thought of tears falling at a touch and a touch from Hawke at that, but…

But. He couldn’t deny it had no effect either, couldn’t deny that he wasn’t made of stone. He might have tried if Hawke called him on it, but it wouldn’t have been accurate or true.

Luckily Hawke did not.

“I really did hope you’d figure it out one day,” he said, quiet. His own eyes gleamed a little, suspiciously so, making Cullen wonder just how long this had been going on without him noticing. “You’re kind of dense for such an insightful military mind.”

“I never claimed to be insightful.” Cullen bit back a laugh, affectatiously light. It was a front only, but he wanted to be more like Hawke and turn this into a joke to save them both from falling into despair or doubt. He certainly didn’t feel insightful. “I let you run around Kirkwall, didn’t I?”

The Maker’s blessings were upon him though because Hawke went with it, a bright smile pulling at his mouth, making him look years younger, like in the old days when responsibility after responsibility, disappointment after disappointment hadn’t piled themselves up on his shoulders. Cullen didn’t like stealing, but this was a theft he was happy to participate in. Let him have a bit of his youth back, if only for a moment.

“You did, at that,” Hawke admitted, finding a hint of his usual tone. He pinched Cullen’s chin and jerked his head toward Cullen’s command tent. “Why don’t we discuss the particulars back there?”

“That sounds nearly as inappropriate as what we’re doing now.” This was familiar territory, solid ground that Cullen could truly stand on. From here, they would be able to figure this out, Cullen was certain of it.

For the first time in a very long time, he was excited about the possibilities the future held. It was the first time in a long time that there were actually possibilities to be excited about.

“Come on,” he said, trying not to let those possibilities overwhelm him. “There’s still some work to do.”

Hawke nodded, only half as dramatically disappointed as he would have been before the world went entirely to hell around them. “I’m certainly motivated to see it done, Commander.” He gestured expansively, generously. “Lead the way.”

Cullen wouldn’t have let himself think of it as love, nothing as soft and easy to identify as that, but for a moment, he thought: _maybe_.

It was something to think about anyway.

He intended to ensure there _was_ time to think about it by every means at his disposal. With Hawke at his side, it even seemed possible.

Madness, too, of course, but possible even so.


End file.
